The wave hits the beach, writing words on the sand;
to the academic man, this
could be the answer....
In fact, it's no more than a hunch.
Still we try to eat it -
think we're all pretty out to lunch.
The wave is out of reach,
trailing words from the
only air can understand.
Semaphore on the shoreline,
waiting for distance to
recede, unhappily imperfect
when we should be happy just to breathe.
But with each
so present, tense,
we want to know,
we want it sure,
it don't make
So I'll do mine and you do yours
but let's not trade sand and sea
for brick and
The wave hits the beach, laps around abandoned clothes,
wants to share a joke
with those who'll brave the breakers,
who'll break bread rather than pray
lost in the small print of the day.
The words are only pictures
the next wave wipes away.